


Will you still love me tomorrow?

by Chronicler



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst, British Character, British English, Canon Compliant, Character(s) of Color, Complicated Relationships, Dom/sub Undertones, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Heartbreak, Hook-Up, Hotel Sex, M/M, Making Out, Marking, Pain, Pining, Polyamory, Porn, Queer Character, Unrequited Love, What Have I Done, pansexual characters, tragiporn, ziam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-26
Updated: 2014-07-26
Packaged: 2018-02-09 08:35:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1976271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chronicler/pseuds/Chronicler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just one possible version of how things may have been between Zayn and Liam, when Zayn was pining and Liam didn't know how to handle it.</p><p>Or to put it another way: Liam goes to Zayn for easy sex, and Zayn gives it to him, even though it breaks his heart to not get more.</p><p>Is tragiporn a word? It should be...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Will you still love me tomorrow?

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Lynn, Mayra, Vanessa, Kayla, Marisol, Kierra, & Courtney for beta reading.
> 
> Any feedback would be very gratefully received.
> 
> Title taken from the song written by Carole King and Gerry Goffin, originally recorded by The Shirelles.
> 
> Largely written because I love this song. Also, I wrote this story a while ago and didn't post it. I hope I've improved since, and that I'm still improving and learning.
> 
> I'm still editing. Apparently forever...

[Will you still love me tomorrow? ~ The Shirelles](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cbxxkwBQk_o)

His thumb moves restlessly over the remote control in his hand, as he hops unseeingly from one random channel to another on the ostentatiously large television hanging on the wall. He is in yet another pristinely impersonal hotel room; in yet another large empty bed with its sterile white sheets. 

Sleep is eluding him, yet again. He has already raided the mini bar – the buzz from the ridiculously expensive alcohol not helping, nor are the too many cigarettes he smoked at the open window. They performed yet another concert earlier tonight; his limited stamina is wearing thin, but there is too much on his mind for him to relax, too many things that he is determinedly trying not to think about and failing miserably.

“Zayn?”

He is dragged back to his surroundings by the sound of an achingly familiar voice calling his name, muffled through the door, and a series of hurried knocks. Then his name again, called in a hushed tone, and more knocks, conveying the nervous energy he knows is struggling to contain itself on the other side of the wall.

As he considers feigning sleep, he wonders what his life would be like if he could stop all of this. Walk away. A bitter laugh escapes him – it almost sounds like a sob – as he turns off the television and stumbles to the mirror. He looks thin and tired, even to himself, as he drags his fingers through his dishevelled hair in an attempt to style it – but he will concede his own beauty, in others eyes at least.

The knocking has stopped and he is almost afraid that he will find an empty corridor. And almost afraid that he won’t.

Taking a deep breath, ready for the games to begin, he opens the door to find Liam standing there. Who else could it be? For a precious fraction of a second, Zayn gets to see the insecure, anxious boy that is rapidly being left behind, as his late night visitor looks at the ground, gnawing at his plump lower lip, fingers moving ceaselessly against each other as his hands curl into fists, seemingly pondering what to do if Zayn has finally decided not to let him in this time – in every sense.

But the moment is fleeting, then gone, as he looks up at Zayn, the confident man emerging, at least on the surface. Smiling, warm and easy, creases settling charmingly by his deep brown eyes – rich and luxuriant, like melted chocolate – drawing Zayn in, as always.

“Did I wake you?” Liam’s genuine concern disarms Zayn, as though it would really matter to either of them if he had been asleep.

“No, I was just watching TV,” he half lies.

Liam’s brow furrows as he looks Zayn over critically. “Have you been drinking?”

“You know me too well.” Zayn tries to lighten the mood, attempting a smile, but it falls flat. After all, they do know each other far, far too well.

“I couldn’t sleep either. I thought we could hang out, and talk… or _something?…"_ Liam asks, giving a small disingenuous shrug on the last word (in the obvious pretence that he doesn’t know exactly what he’s here for), combined with a slightly awkward, suggestive raise of an eyebrow. This is followed by a quick anticipatory bite of his lower lip as he awaits an answer.

 _"_ _‘Or something,’ really fucking smooth, Romeo,"_ he wants to say, but doesn’t. There’s no point dragging this out, it will end the same way, whatever he says or does, so he relaxes into the inevitability of it and steps aside, holding the door open behind himself; an invitation, a consent, a conditional surrender.

Liam smiles openly at him again and it digs its way like shards of broken glass pushing inescapably into his heart.

He knows his role in this. This is one dance that he knows all the steps to. Another routine that Liam has taught him well. And he will do it – will pretend that he isn’t in love with Liam. And Liam will pretend that he doesn’t know. He wonders how the fuck this even works; they both know exactly what’s going on, it has been happening almost since they met. Touches that lingered a little too long. Hugs that were a little too close. Stolen kisses that they never mentioned.

He’d thought at first that perhaps it was the start of something, that things would be easy. He realises now how naïve he had been. Liam’s denial and fear had turned out to be an insurmountable obstacle, added to that was their rapid leap to an almost unprecedented level of fame that no one had expected, and the sudden interest from women who wouldn’t have looked twice at them before.

And if Zayn is being honest, had Liam been brave enough to plunge fully into whatever this is between them, then he isn’t sure he could have handled all the consequences that he would have faced himself, from his family and the rest of the world. It almost makes it easier that he has never been given the option. Almost.

So here they are. He waits. And when Liam’s resolve crumbles, Zayn always lets him in. He couldn’t stop himself if he tried. And he doesn’t try. He waits for Liam to come to him. Waits for Liam to come to his senses and stay. Waits for himself to give up and leave.

Knowing that afterwards Liam will creep back to his own room, pretending this is nothing, just something that friends do. Knowing that Liam will convince himself that it’s the responsible thing, these clandestine secret encounters, before he goes back to being the good boy, with his understanding girlfriend and their fucking "arrangement". Or rather his fame-whore girlfriend, in Zayn’s opinion, but that doesn’t matter, if it wasn’t her then it would be someone else. And it’s not like he doesn’t have a girlfriend himself, officially at least. Keeping up appearances. Smoke and mirrors.

How long they can keep this up, Zayn isn’t sure, but for now he takes what he can get. At least Liam has stopped claiming he can’t do this anymore, not even believing his own pointless protestations.

It’s all so complicated and messy; it drains him, leaving him with a desolate exhaustion he can’t shake. Though it is always threatening to explode into a self-abusive rage, which may be a relief when it happens.

After Zayn shuts the door, Liam comes straight to him, his hands sliding around Zayn’s waist as he backs him towards the bed. Zayn is glad that tonight there is no pretence of this being a seduction or an unexpected drunken mistake. Liam’s hands are eager and restless as he pulls at Zayn’s clothes and tries to kiss him at the same time, making a bad job of both in his excitement; but Zayn doesn’t care, not when he can feel Liam pushing against him, already half hard.

The back of Zayn’s knees hit the bed and he falls back until he is sitting on the edge, looking up. Liam is too turned on to be embarrassed as he pulls off his own shirt and Zayn watches, licking his lips appreciatively. He never tires of the sight of Liam’s thick, toned chest and the well-developed muscles in his arms that he works so hard on – seemingly determined to never again be the bullied child he used to be. It makes Zayn feel small and overpowered; he is reaching the point where he doesn’t bother denying to himself how much that appeals to him.

He urgently takes off his own t-shirt, then lifts his hips to drag off his boxers, as Liam strips off the rest of his clothes. Zayn then lays back on the bed; there’s no point in false modesty, it’s not like they haven’t done this before. He spreads his legs, knees bent, thighs falling open, as Liam climbs onto the bed and kneels between them.

“Lube?” Liam asks him questioningly with a slight raise of his eyebrows.

Letting out a frustrated sigh, he pushes Liam off him into the centre of the bed, then reaches over to open the nightstand drawer. He mutters, “shit,” as he accidentally pulls it all the way out, and it clatters to the floor along with its contents; too much adrenalin and need driving him and stealing his coordination. Leaning over the edge of the bed, he roots around until he finds what he’s looking for – though he’d only expected to use it alone tonight – before laying back down with a dramatic groan and resuming his inviting pose with a show of put-upon reluctance that he doesn’t really feel.

He opens his mouth to tell Liam to bring his own fucking lube next time, but the teasing words die unuttered on his tongue, his lips never forming the smile that had threatened to accompany them, as the realisation douses over him like ice-cold water that he never really knows whether there will be a ‘next time’. He suspects, he hopes, he occasionally lets himself dream, but he can never really be sure. Even if they can’t bring themselves to stop, there are others who would be only too glad for this little “problem” to go away, if they found out about it. And Zayn isn’t really sure he has the strength to stand against the world, even with Liam by his side – if Liam ever even finds the courage to take that place.

Zayn’s moment of morbid introspection quickly passes, as Liam goes from looking worried that he has done something wrong, to looking amusedly smug, with a playful glint in his eyes, as he notices what Zayn is holding out to him. It would piss Zayn off if he didn’t find it so attractive.

After kneeling back between Zayn’s welcoming thighs, Liam takes the offered tube, squeezes the clear gel onto his palm, wraps his fist around his own dick, then strokes his hand over it until it glistens and is fully erect. He looks like he is enjoying Zayn’s hungry gaze a little too much. Squeezing more of it into his hand, before tossing the tube aside, he spreads it efficiently over Zayn’s rapidly hardening cock – just to get it wet – then lowers himself to lay on top of him, sucking in a breath as they brush against each other, slick and ready.

He wishes he were about to get fucked, but he knows that Liam is only here to get off, quickly and easily. Liam seems to find comfort in not taking too much from him, not getting in too deep, merely skimming his surface with frustratingly tentative fingers. As though that makes this less painful, when really it's the entire fucking problem. Zayn can feel his skittish lover's touch right down to his bones, but can't hold on to it as it drifts away.

“ _Why do you do this to me? You take me apart, then leave me in shattered pieces that I can’t fit back together!"_ He wants to ask, but doesn’t – as Liam kisses him, deep and insistent, moving against him, setting a rhythm that is already desperate.

“D’you want me to blow you?” Zayn breaks the kiss to gasp out instead – he has missed the weight and taste of Liam in his mouth, on his tongue – but Liam just grips Zayn’s hips tighter and thrusts faster and harder against him at the suggestion, his face buried against Zayn's neck, clearly not in the mood for conversation. If Zayn could form coherent words right now, he would tell him that it’s okay, that Liam can do whatever he likes to him, that he doesn’t care about afterwards. He just wants Liam inside of him – but he can’t think anymore, let alone speak. So he just holds on to the broad expanse of Liam’s back and rocks up against him as he drowns in the unthinking pleasure.

Their cocks are pressed together, slick and sliding, pushing along each other’s and back, over and over, trapped between their bodies – driving Zayn out of his mind. There are lips moving against Zayn’s throat, leaving searing kisses: he can feel the glancing threat of teeth, a moist tongue, and warm breath that contains whispers he can’t quite make out; presumably the things that Liam daren’t say out loud. He strains to listen, but can only hear his own gasp as the head of his cock catches on Liam’s foreskin. _Fuck_ this is _perfect_.

Time is blending together for Zayn, but he finds that, at some point, Liam has moved down to his chest, suckling harshly on his nipples, one then the other, running his tongue over the smooth skin between them. He closes his eyes and drifts into it, as he cradles Liam’s head in his hands, arches up to his mouth, and ruts against the firm muscles of his abdomen.

It’s all too much, yet not nearly enough. Zayn pushes against Liam’s chest, moving him onto his back, then straddles his upper thighs, his own thighs brushing against Liam’s hips, their balls nestled together. He searches for the lube – finding it somehow wedged under a pillow – then coats his own hand, positioning himself so that he can stretch it around both their cocks at once. He feels gratified as Liam’s head falls back onto the pillow and he murmurs a fractured curse at the feel of it, their slick lengths rubbing against each other, Zayn’s fingers curled around Liam’s cock and his thumb keeping his own pressed tightly against it.

His hand moves quickly, working them both over, pushing down on Liam with his free hand to keep him still, which is never easy. Once he has Liam pleading, he lets go of his own cock, wrapping his hand around just Liam’s; not caring about anything but giving Liam what he needs. Leaning over him, he concentrates all his efforts on being Liam’s entire world, for a brief moment, and pretending for himself that he has some control over any of this. Liam is thick and hard in his hand, he can feel the veins running under his fingers, the foreskin sliding easily. Zayn feels a possessiveness, a yearning, that he can’t satisfy.

He feels the muscles in Liam’s abdomen tense under his fingertips, and Liam’s dick pulse in his other hand as he bucks up into it and starts to orgasm, groaning deeply through it. Liam's come splashes messily onto his own chest, then droplets hit his abdomen, and drip down over Zayn’s hand.

After collapsing onto his back, Zayn sucks on one of his own fingers, needing a taste, then wraps his hand around his own cock and smears Liam’s come over his engorged flesh frantically. Zayn doesn't even notice that Liam has managed to move, until he is again kneeling, settled between Zayn's thighs. He watches, annoyed then fascinated, as Liam grabs his hand and pulls it gently but firmly away from his cock. Liam then runs his other hand through his own come, which is streaked down his torso, caught in the hair scattered over his chest and down the centre of his body, before smearing more of it over Zayn’s eager cock.

Smirking, Zayn looks up at him through long, dark lashes, eyelids heavy with lust; he loves it when Liam allows himself to be filthy, literally and figuratively. Though Liam then starts to move his hand – it feels big, powerful, and confident – like he knows exactly how to please Zayn. Which he does. He does. And all Zayn can do is moan and give himself over to the heavy sensations centred in his groin then rippling out to every part of his body. Liam runs his thumb over the sleek head of Zayn's cock, across the slit, maps the shaft with his fingers, then sets a merciless pace.

“ _I love you, I love you, I love you,_ " plays over and over in Zayn’s mind, like a stuck record; the bitter metallic tang of blood seeps into his mouth as he bites into his lip to stay silent. How can he avoid stepping over the line when he can’t even see it?

It is a little embarrassing how quickly he comes, but it has been a while since he last had Liam on top of him. There are always others: men, women, and those somewhere in-between, who are all too eager to add his well-known name to their sexual resume; but it isn’t the same with anyone else. He wants this all the time and he feels the first twinges of loss even as he feels the surge of release, pushing up into Liam’s hand as he strokes him through it. Zayn grabs Liam’s other hand, to anchor himself – to pretend that Liam loves him back the way that Zayn needs him to.

He finds himself holding on a little too tight, for a little too long, a desperate ache clawing its way out through his hands, as Liam pulls away from him and gets off the bed. He feels cheap, being left so soon; he doesn’t even have the excuse of money being left on the nightstand to pay for his services.

Liam doesn’t leave yet though; instead he steps around the items left strewn on the carpet, before going into the bathroom. Zayn listens to him piss, liking the image it gives him. Then the tap runs too long for Liam to just be washing his hands, and Zayn pictures him conscientiously removing all evidence of what they have just done together.

But he comes back with a warm wet cloth, and wipes off the sticky mess they have both left on Zayn – soft and gentle, apologising with his touch, though avoiding meeting Zayn’s eyes. He lets Liam give into his desire to care for him, allowing him this one small success at it, after so many dismal failures. Watching intently, Zayn wonders if he looks as wrecked as he feels, or if he is finally becoming a better actor – or perhaps Liam chooses not to see it, or even enjoys it.

Again he fears that Liam will leave after he tosses the cloth onto the nightstand, but he lays down instead, pulling the sheet over them both – although his body seems stiff and distant, even laying naked only inches away.

He wants to lay his head on Liam’s chest. He could cry in frustration. But he doesn’t think he could handle the inevitable rejection, and he is feeling indulgent after being tended to, so he turns onto his side, facing away from Liam. Settling onto the mattress, he closes his eyes, like this is no big deal, even though it feels like the end of the fucking world.

What feels like mere minutes later, he feels the bed dip, then settle, as Liam silently climbs out the other side. Zayn doesn’t move – keeps his breathing deliberately steady, his eyes closed, as he feigns sleep. After all, what’s one more lie? He doesn’t need Liam’s awkward guilt. Each time this happens he can feel his own anger rising inexorably higher, it ebbs and then flows towards an inevitable confrontation that will determine their future, and it scares the fuck out of him. Tonight he can delay it again, so he does.

He listens to Liam scrambling around, trying (and failing) to not to make any noise as he pulls his clothes on haphazardly. Then it sounds like he is gingerly putting the drawer and its contents back where they came from, as though he doesn’t want to leave a mess behind, as though it isn’t far too late for that.

There is total silence for a moment; he imagines that Liam is looking down at him, memorizing – the sheet ghosting revealingly over his hip, then the bare flesh of his slender waist and the curve of his lower back. He can almost feel the gaze rising along the valley that runs up his spine, taking in his too prominent ribs along the way. It reaches the tattoo fanning out its feathers below the nape of his neck, then up to the short black bristles of his closely shorn hair, which grow longer and softer as the look caresses higher, as though it is gently cupping the back of his head…

Then his fantasy is interrupted, as he hears the soft click of the door being closed quietly, and he wonders if he just imagined being studied. Perhaps Liam’s attention will never linger on him in the way that his own eyes can never quite look away.

Feeling a little sick, he pretends it’s the alcohol catching up with him, as he drags the sheet up around his shoulders and waits for the escape of sleep to claim him. He is always waiting. And he will keep waiting. It’s what he does.

**_The end_ **


End file.
